


Constant

by RainingStars



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Angst, Cecil is Inhuman, Character Death, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Reincarnation, Sheriff's Secret Police, Which sort of quickly turns into angst, and fluff, character depression, happy fluff, i'm sorry in advance, so mostly angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 09:28:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainingStars/pseuds/RainingStars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Shhhhh, it's alright, my Carlos. After all, don't you realize? Even the monsters under—or in—your bed die eventually."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Difference is Today

**Author's Note:**

> I sold my soul to Night Vale a few weeks ago, and now I've gone and written a thing for it. This is my first fic for the fandom so we'll see how this goes. This is written in a different style than I usually use (a.k.a present tense), so constructive criticism is more than welcome. 
> 
> Enjoy friends!
> 
> *Tiny edit: number of chapters increased by 1*

The first thing he's done every morning for the past few weeks is draw back the curtains of the window overlooking the front lawn, and peer outside to see what had changed this time. Yesterday it had been the small garden gnome, who had vanished only to returned later that night with his signature fishing hat replaced with a bear trap oozing green liquid. The day before that, their prized Venus fly trap, Margaret, had begun to slowly change colors, and seemed to be nuzzling flies that flew by instead of quickly snapping them up, as was supposed to be her nature. 

Today he notices the Dogwood out on their front lawn has sprouted patches of fur...not unlike that of an actual dog. If he listens closely, he swears he can hear it panting under the hot sun. He chuckles at this, because he'd never figured the town would have such an ironic sense of humor. 

Having lived there for over a year now, Carlos is accustomed to the abrupt changes and mysterious occurrences of Night Vale. He has come to accept that very little stays the same, and that constants are as scarce as the presence of wheat and wheat by-product. That had been the most difficult thing to get used to when he'd first moved. Carlos enjoys consistency in his life, which is why Night Vale seemed so foreign and dangerous at first. 

Then came the voice. The rich, soothing tone that filled his ears at the exact same time every day, bringing him news and community calendars and sudden reports and the weather. Cecil. He is a constant. The only constant Carlos can depend on. He knows that every evening Cecil would speak to the town and inform them on things they needed—and from time to time were actually forbidden—to know. Soon that knowledge expands, and Carlos learns that after Cecil finishes speaking to the town, he comes back home and speaks to Carlos specifically, informing him of how beautiful and perfect he is in a voice that whispers words meant only for him. 

And every morning that same voice waltzes down the stairs (exactly as it was doing now), jubilantly wishing him a good morning as a pair of strong and gentle arms clasp around his waist. A chin perches on his shoulder, and together he and Cecil gaze out into the early streets of Night Vale, wondering just how everything came to be as it is here, and not particularly caring knowing that they both have each other to keep themselves sane. 

"Dear Carlos, I do believe we've found a stray Dogwood." 

"It was probably drawn to the house last night. I told you not to leave the window open during our bedtime. Your whine is high enough to be considered a dog whistle." 

The scientist's snide-ness earns him a nibble on his ear.

And Cecil's coy-ness provokes Carlos's hand to ever so lightly run up his knee, up, up, until it caressed his face. He shivers with pleasure.

"I actually prefer cats," Cecil nips at Carlos's collarbone, "but I wouldn't want to hurt the tree's feeling."

"I could tell you were more of a cat person," Carlos traces the chiseled lines of Cecil's torso, smirking as they flex beneath his touch, causing the other man to sigh. "You purr just like one." 

And then after flirting a few moments more, the two kiss, just as they do every morning. First slowly, savoring each other, for they have been separated by sleep for what seemed like an eternity. Then gradually, it becomes deeper, more passionate, their lips merging together until they are practically one. Cecil sweeps up Carlos, breathes out some comment about his perfection, and goes back to devouring as he brings him into the kitchen. 

_It's sort of what you'd find in a sappy romantic movie,_ Carlos thinks as Cecil places him onto the kitchen counter where they both laugh and hold each other, foreheads touching, smile to smile. But he likes that. It's a constant for both of them. And Cecil is just so damn gorgeous in the morning, how could he resist? 

But such repetitive activity made it easier to notice when something was different. Carlos can't tell for sure, but it seems as though Cecil is tired. Not of their routine, but like he's ill. Even his forehead felt warmer than usual. That was strange. In his mind, it never really registered to Carlos that Cecil could become ill like regular people...then again, Cecil isn't like regular people. Cecil might not even be classified as a person. 

_He'll feel better after we eat,_ Carlos decides, and with one last peck on the cheek he slides off the counter and goes to the fridge.

Just like every morning, Carlos takes out the egg carton, grabs the ceramic squirrel salt and pepper shakers that Cecil bought for him on a whim one day, and decides what kind of eggs to make. They always have eggs for breakfast because Carlos is the one who cooks in the morning and eggs are the only thing he can successfully make without burning. Cecil usually makes the other meals in the house. 

"Scrambled, fried, or do you want to be fancy and have omelets?" 

"Well if you're offering omelets, then how could I refuse?" Cecil replies. His voice is soothing as always and...is it a little bit raspy as well? 

Carlos frowns a little as he cracks eggs into a bowl and whisks. "Cec," he calls over his shoulder, pronouncing the nickname as he would the word "cease", "Cec, d'ya mind throwing those eggshells in the trash compactor?"

"Assist the master chef?" Cecil asks, feigning surprise, "of course!" He's just as playful as ever, so maybe Carlos is just imagining something wrong. Although, did he just wince as he got up? 

_You worry too much, everything’s fine. Focus on making breakfast._

And everything does seem fine for about a minute before there’s a quick whirring sound followed by: “Crapcrapcrapcrap _crap!_ "

Carlos quickly turns and to witness Cecil with knees bent holding up two hands as if defending himself from the blender in front of him. He slowly looks over his shoulder and sees Carlos staring at him anxiously. 

He gives his partner a sheepish smile. "Heh, the ah...I got dizzy for a second and I mistook the blender for the trash compactor." He immediately retrieves the bashed up shells and throws them in the correct place. "That would have gotten messy considering if you blend anything other than fruit in this thing; a black void opens up in the ceiling. I think the guy who specializes in that retired to the Whispering Forest a few weeks ago."

And then he gives a small laugh that turns into a cough. 

And then Carlos is officially concerned. 

Because this is not like every morning. 

He goes up to Cecil and places the back of his hand to his forehead. He hadn't been imagining it the first time: It's definitely warmer than normal. 

"Cecil, why don't we go and sit down?" 

The concern laced through Carlos's voice does not go unheard by Cecil. "Is something wrong? Carlos, as devastatingly cute as you are with your eyebrows scrunched together—"

"Are you okay?"

Cecil smirks. "You're sitting in front of me, aren't you?"

"I'm being serious now. How are you feeling? I mean, you've been all kinds of sick this morning: forehead hot, voice raspy, and now you're having dizzy spells." Carlos searches Cecil's face as he speaks. It's both a nervous habit and a way to make sure nothing new suddenly appears. "As a scientist I'd say those are the symptoms of some sort of virus."

"Wouldn't that be up to a doctor?"

"Who do you think creates medicines for doctors?"

"Carlos, my troubled Carlos," Cecil chuckles and reaches across the table for the scientist's hand, "you really do care." The look he's receiving is almost unbearably cute. He understands Carlos is truly worried for him, but at the moment he can't help but daydream about leaning over and kissing those lips that are now being bitten in concern. 

"Well whatever's wrong with you, it obviously hasn't messed with your sex drive." Carlos has noticed Cecil beginning to space out on his face. He smiles. Even if he is sick, Cecil's personality remains constant no matter what. 

One question is still nudging the back of Carlos's mind. "Cec...can you even get sick? Normal sick?"

That was a good question. Cecil tilts his head pensively. He hasn't gotten sick in a while, hell maybe ever. He vaguely recalls catching laryngitis when he was young, but the next day he woke up with the deep voice that the Night Vale community radio audience has come to know and love. He wouldn't call that an illness so much as a gift. 

"In my experience, sickness doesn’t affect me the same way as most people.” 

A small weight lifts from Carlos's mind. Cecil is going to be okay. If illness doesn't affect him normally, then what's to worry about? Still, Carlos wants to make sure this doesn't turn into something more serious. "Why don't you stay home today? I'm sure you just need some extra rest. A day off of work won't kill you, right?"

Carlos obviously still hasn't gotten a chance to meet Station Management. Even with the potential consequences, Cecil considers staying home to give Carlos some peace of mind. But who would fill in? The latest intern, intern Nathan, had quit yesterday after only 14 hours. He had been pale and shaky all day, and left a note of resignation saying something about insanity and animal cruelty. Apparently he didn't like the fact that the station pet Koshak was a cat suspended in the air. Ah well, to each his own. 

"As tempting as a day off with you sounds, I have to go in. You understand, don't you?"

Carlos sighs. He assumed Cecil would say something like this. Although the scientist knows Cecil loves him, he'd had his job long before he'd had Carlos. "Fine. I'm coming with you. I want to make sure nothing happens to you off air when no one can hear you."

Cecil's eyes grow wide with excitement. "Ooh, this'll be fun!" He flashes a big grin, the kind that shows off his sharp incisors that Carlos often teases him about being "vampire teeth." 

"It's settled then, sick boy." Carlos is relieved Cecil is so enthusiastic about this offer. "I'll call into work. I'm keeping a close eye on you today." He gets up to turn on the stove and cook the eggs that have since been abandoned. 

Cecil gets up as well, stretches and lets out a tremendous yawn. He stands behind Carlos; hands on the other man's shoulders as he watches him expertly fold the omelets. "So, since you're taking care of me today, are you going to wear a cute nurse's outfit?" 

Carlos rolls his eyes. "Definitely not in public, but if you're feeling better tonight well..." He scoops up the first omelet with his spatula—plain, nothing inside for him—and turns to tap Cecil on the nose. "Plate please."

"Of course, Doctor." 

_See, he's teasing. He's fine._

Carlos wishes he could believe himself.

**-:-**

It happens during the weather. 

Carlos is in Cecil's booth, sitting across from him and looking around. Cecil has placed plastic glow-in-the-dark stars on his black ceiling so that they form an eye, with a crescent moon in the center as the iris. They mirror the sky of Night Vale come evening, something Carlos has become used to and even fond of. Another constant is fine by him. 

Other than this little bit of decor and the "On Air" sign in the top right corner, the booth is pretty much empty with deep purple walls and a concrete floor. There's a small sound board in front of Cecil filled with various buttons and small switches so he can cue any sounds or recorded announcements he may use during his show. In front of both him and Carlos are two vintage microphones, which the scientist absolutely adores. 

"It's so different being inside the studio instead of just listening to the sounds that come out of it over the radio," Carlos observes. 

"And it's so different having you inside the studio, because now when I talk about you I can do it to your face." Cecil winks and gives a gentle kick to his partner's foot under the table.

The door to the booth opens and the intern—a new girl named Lacy—pokes her head in. "Ready, Mr. Baldwin?

Cecil gives a thumbs up, and with that, the "On Air" sign turns red. 

"Shut your doors, turn off the lights, hide under the covers and close your eyes. Now, let my voice guide you as we search for whatever it was you lost last week. Welcome to Night Vale!"

Carlos closes his eyes and lets Cecil's voice wash over him. He absolutely adores listening to him on the radio, because his radio voice is the thing that made Carlos fall for him in the first place. It's deep and booming and never changing. Beautiful. Just like its owner. 

After a few seconds of the show's introductory tune, Cecil begins speaking again. "Night Vale, you're not gonna believe this. Guess who's with me in the studio as we speak? _Carlos!_ Yes, my beautiful, perfect haired, fantastic Carlos is sitting across from me as I speak, listeners! You see, this morning I wasn't feeling too well, and so Carlos, my worrisome Carlos, decided to come with me to work to keep an eye on me."

Carlos can't help but smile. The way Cecil talks about him reminds him of a teenage girl. It's adorable. Throughout the broadcast he shares quick, loving gazes and winks with Cecil as his rich tone seeps into the microphone and through the speakers of every radio in town. 

For the most part he seems fine. He shivers a few times as though he's cold, and then moments later wipes beads of sweat off of his brow as if he's boiling hot. Carlos also notices he's becoming increasingly pale. 

_Maybe the vent system is screwy. He's talking, he's happy, relax._

Carlos wishes he hadn’t trusted himself. 

A minute after announcing the weather, Cecil's content expression falls and he begins breathing heavily. 

Carlos hears and breaks his gaze from the starry ceiling to see Cecil clutching his head with one hand as the other claws furiously at his tie to loosen it, as if it's choking him. 

"Cec?" Carlos says slowly. "Cec, what's wrong?" 

"Can't....gah...head...breathe..."

"Cecil." The word is a whisper as it hisses from his lips. Then it registers: someone he loves is in trouble. Carlos shoots up and runs to the broadcaster's side. "Cecil! Cecil, try taking deep breaths."

He sees the other man's pupils dilate. Shit. This was bad. This was extremely bad. Shitshitshit _shit._

Carlos helps Cecil stand up and guides his shaky steps as he leads him to a wall and makes him sit on the floor. God knows how much longer it would’ve been before he’d fallen off the chair he was sitting on. He takes off the sweatshirt he's wearing and wraps it around Cecil. 

_Fuck, now what? I can't tell if he's having a stroke or seizure or heart attack or whatever the hell is happening._ His mind is racing. He doesn't do well under pressure. 

Carlos runs to the door and opens it, shouting, "LACY! Lacy I need you!"

The intern comes rushing. "Sir?"

"Cecil...he's...are there any ambulances we can call?"

Lacy peeks over the scientist's shoulder and her eyes grow wide. "Mr. Baldwin!" She looks at Carlos, "is he okay?!"

"I don't know. One minute he was announcing the weather and the next he's freaking out." A cry sounds from behind him. "Fuck. Lacy, just call someone, an ambulance or whatever this town has, I don't know. I guess I have to try to calm him or something just..."

Carlos shakes his head as he trails off. Lacy rushes off to call someone and he returns to his partner's side. 

"Cec. Cec it's okay I'm here. What hurts, what's wrong?"

"Head...chest...can't breathe." Cecil is practically white as he gasps out these words. His tie's been thrown to the side and his shirt is unbuttoned and open at the throat. 

Carlos grabs an icy hand and places his palm on Cecil's forehead. 

"Ah!" He cries, retreating his hand and shaking it. Cecil's forehead is scalding, impossibly hot.

_“In my experience, sickness doesn’t affect me the same way as most people.”_

Carlos and his stupid optimistic mind had taken that to mean that Cecil was practically immune to sickness, that while other people would catch colds and recover in a week, Cecil might only take a day, if not hours. He never once considered that the cold that was a nuisance to some may be deadly to him.

Suddenly Carlos’s vision is blurry. He’s tearing up. He furiously wipes at his eyes, refusing to break down. But he’s so confused, and Cecil is so… _fucked up_ right now.

He begins running his fingers carefully through the pale man’s hair, trying to sooth him. “Shhhhh, it’s okay.”

“Carlos—”

“Shhhhh.”

“Stay with me.” It’s heartbreaking to hear such a strong voice broken and pleading. 

Carlos cautiously kisses the top of Cecil’s head and feels that the heat has gone down. “Shhhhh, it’s alright, Cecil. After all, didn’t you realize? I couldn’t possibly leave your side when you’re the only thing I know that makes sense.”

Lacy opens the door. “Sir, the ambulances are all under inspection. Apparently the hooded figures have been—”

“Thanks for trying, Lacy,” Carlos interrupts, not even the slightest bit surprised that one of the only forms of help would be unavailable the moment he needed it most, “but I think he’s beginning to calm down.”

Cecil’s pupils have returned to their normal size, his face was beginning to look less pale, and his hand has moved away from his head. He's still breathing heavily, although he manages a weak grin as he croaks, “I’m starting to…come to my senses.” To prove himself, he gets up, wobbles, and then makes his way to his seat in front of his microphone. Carlos stands behind him as a precaution. He gives the intern a thumbs up and she immediately turns the “On Air” sign back on. Cecil gives a small cough and begins to speak. 

“Listeners…there's been a setback in the studio…so I believe we’ll end here. Tune in next for a lesson on how to speak the African clicking language taught to you in mandarin Chinese, followed by a mandatory-but-only-if-you’re-feeling-up-to-it hypnosis session. Goodnight, Night Vale, Good—” He dissolves into a fit of coughing before he can finish. 

“On Air” goes dark. Carlos walks over to Cecil and takes him by the shoulders. 

“Tomorrow, you’re taking the day off.”


	2. Un-Anchored

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this hurt a little bit more than I was expecting. That's all I can really say about this chapter.
> 
> Read on, and I apologize in advance.

Tomorrow turns into the next day which turns into a week. Cecil remains constantly ill.

His episodes however are anything but. 

Some nights Cecil will simply shake and run a fever. Other nights present different combinations and degrees of shaking, hot and cold flashes, shortness of breath, dilated pupils, and more recently: vomiting. Cecil’s body has begun to start rejecting food, which even for a half non-human is deeply concerning. 

Given all these symptoms, Carlos is unsure what the hell Cecil is fighting. He’s already slipped out a few times during the deeper of Cecil’s now frequent naps to examine medical books at the library, but has found nothing except for a few librarians waiting behind shelves to attack. He’s tried to backtrack enough to maybe remember what could have possibly infected Cecil, but in a town like Night Vale the answers were endless and bizarre. He’s even ventured to both the Night Vale and Desert Bluffs hospitals, but when he’d described the symptoms to doctors, there had been no reaction other than blank stares. They suggest checking him into the hospital for tests, but Carlos can’t bear giving Cecil over to a white room with people poking and prodding and keeping him awake almost all day and night. Cecil has shared his fear of hospitals with the scientist before. He needs to Carlos and only Carlos to stay by his side. 

By Saturday morning, he’s exhausted and irritated, but still he wills himself to wake up. It’s the least he can do for Cecil at this point. He slowly gets up, and goes downstairs. After a quick glance to see what’s changed about the front lawn, he notes that the grass is growing vertically. 

Carlos’s cooking skills have expanded from eggs to canned Campbell’s soups. This is the only thing that Cecil doesn’t throw up…most of the time. Carlos brings this morning’s can of chicken noodle to a simmer on the stove top, seasons it with a shake from the squirrel salt and pepper shakers, and stirs. 

The motion and whirlpool created by the stirring is lulling, and Carlos yawns. He and Cecil had been up half the night after Cecil awoke to hallucinations. He hadn’t screamed or thrashed, but still Carlos had woken up and looked over to see his partner frozen in absolute fear next to him. He had stroked Cecil’s hair and held him as Cecil’s gaze remained distant, and as his temperature began to change back and forth from ridiculous degrees of hot and cold. 

_You’ll find a cure. You’re doing all you can._

Carlos has learned to ignore himself.

He swaps the pot for a skillet on the stove and prepares himself a plain omelet. Mornings had become less exciting without Cecil cooing at him from his seat at the kitchen table, and without anyone to laugh with about the vertical grass.

Carlos puts the soup in a mug and adds a straw. The first time he did this, Cecil smiled and said that Carlos was truly a scientist, because the soup and straw combination was remarkably innovative. Carlos has been doing it ever since. It’s a small source of happiness for Cecil, one Carlos plans to continue until he gets better.

Carlos takes a deep breath before climbing up the stairs, mentally preparing himself for when he enters the room. Seeing Cecil has been difficult. Listening to Cecil has been awful. The once strong and beautiful voice has now been corrupted by sickness so it has the quality of a scratched up record. The once constant anchor is now beginning to slip, and Carlos’s ship is suffering.

“Breakfast, Cec,” Carlos musters the cheeriest tone possible. “Time to get up!”

“Has my beautiful Carlos brought me another mug of delicious soup?” Cecil croaks, lifting himself up painstakingly slow. 

Carlos sucks in a breath. _Oh no._

Tentacles. They’re just as pale as the rest of his skin, and withered and dry. 

Cecil usually hides them. Not out of shame, but for privacy. His tentacles are an intimate and unique group of appendages that he doesn’t feel the need to flaunt to others. Only a select few know of Cecil’s true nature and appearance. Cecil hadn’t shown Carlos his little secret until their fifth date, and even then he hadn’t been sure if it was the right time. Seeing them like this only increases Carlos’s concern for his partner. Cecil has no reason to show his tentacles now unless he can’t control them. If he can’t control them, that means his illness has become worse. One week, and already it’s progressed into something more severe than Carlos is accustomed to. 

Cecil sees Carlos’s eyebrows knit tightly together. He gives a tremendous cough that leads into a breathy, wheezy laugh. “I’ve been trying to hide them. But…”

The silence that punctuates his sentence is unbearable. Carlos feels his stomach drop. “Cecil. How long has this been going on?”

“Truthfully: The day after the studio incident. They’ve been slipping, and even wrapping around me in my sleep. Those times I woke up coughing were a result of them. Now they’re just so weak I can’t seem to will them to do anything. Plus I’ve got an excruciating headache, so concentrating is the last of my worries.”

Carlos swallows invisible saliva forming in his parched dry mouth. “Well, maybe some food—”

“I’m not hungry.” Cecil is smiling. Why the hell is he smiling? What could possibly be happy or amusing about this situation?

“Okay,” Carlos puts the food on the night stand, “maybe some water and some pain meds—”

“Carlos.” Cecil gently interrupts. He’s been so gentle. He’s never once complained, and has never once stopped being loving and happy…but that was when he was conscious and not displaying some symptom or whimpering quietly. “Carlos, I’m tired.”

“Well maybe a nap…” It takes Carlos a second to process what Cecil actually means. “No. Don’t start with this, Cecil. You’re not tired so don’t even try pretending you are.”

“You must be too. All you’re doing.”

“That’s because I care and I don’t want another week like this! This…whatever fucking virus you have, it’s been causing hell for the both of us! We’re going to beat it. Just hang in there.” 

Maybe it’s selfish. Maybe he’s doing this more for himself than for Cecil. But Carlos can’t let him quit.

“I’m doing this because I love you, you idiot.”

The name calling doesn’t hurt Cecil. “This is Night Vale, Carlos. Diseases pop up all the time. Most don’t even have cures because they’re so bizarre.”

“They’re not deadly though. They’re not _supposed_ to be deadly!” 

“Maybe it wasn’t meant to be, but with me you never can tell.” Cecil barely finishes before he screws his eyes shut and coughs viciously into his elbow. When he opens them he freezes and stares wide eyed at a spot on his sleeve. 

Carlos squints to see what Cecil’s looking at, and immediately wishes he hadn’t: blood. 

“Dammit.”

“It’s okay—”

“No. No, Cecil, this is most definitely not okay. There’s blood on your hand. You’ve just coughed up fucking _blood_ and now you’re going to say everything’s fine?”

But Cecil isn't listening. He's beginning to shake. Out of habit now, Carlos climbs onto the bed and holds the man’s head in his lap and stokes his hair, transforming him into a child in need of a hand to hold.

“There, there,” he whispers, “you’re okay. I’m sorry for snapping.”

They sit like this for about five minutes. Then Cecil, still trembling, lifts himself up and turns to face Carlos. “What did I do to find a gem like you?”

“Speak.” Carlos answers. “That’s all you needed to do.”

“I’m glad you listened.” As if rewarding him, Cecil leans forward and gives Carlos a slow, deep kiss. For that moment, Carlos doesn’t mind that Cecil is sick. He could give a damn about the fact that he might catch this disease from kissing him. He doubts he will, seeing as most spontaneous illnesses that crop up don’t spread unless you counted brain washing, and that wasn’t technically classified as a disease by the Night Vale Hospital staff.

The kiss is delicious and familiar. It’s just the kind they used to share downstairs in the morning. 

Although it’s somehow more somber.

“You’re going to get over this, Cecil.”

“I wish I could agree, but for once, I can’t”

“Stop talking like that.”

“Carlos, you’ll be fine.”

“Shut the fuck up and stop talking like that. I can’t…”

Another painful pause.

Tears begin to prickle in the scientist’s eyes. Hot and angry and sorrowful and defeated. This time, he does nothing to stop them. Then one escapes, rolling down his cheek, and is soon joined by others. He turns away. Cecil shouldn’t have to see him like this. It’ll just hurt him more. Carlos has already failed him by not finding a cure. 

But fingers soon caress his face, turning it back to the stormy grey eyes, now milky, so that they can stare into his own hazel ones. Cecil carefully brushes away the tears, and brings Carlos’s head to his chest. They sit in silence, one silently crying, the other stroking his perfect hair. 

Carlos feels foolish. He should be the one comforting Cecil. But he can’t seem to control himself.

"Shhhhh." Cecil whispers, just as Carlos had mere days ago. But it couldn’t have been days ago. Days are so short, and this time has stretched out for an eternity. 

“Cecil.” Carlos takes in a shuttering breath.

"Shhhhh, it's alright, my Carlos. After all, don't you realize? Even the monsters under—or in—your bed die eventually."

“You’re not a monster.” As soon as he says this, he feels tentacles wrap around him, as firm as their frail state allows. It feels nice. As if he is being encased in a warm Cecil cocoon.

“Others would disagree. You can’t exactly consider me human.”

“You’re _you_ ,” Carlos responds. He’s now clutching Cecil’s shirt. Although he’s been bed-bound this entire week, he still smells of jasmine and clove…crushed and combined with a dash of poison that Carlos can’t help but savor. 

“And you: you’ve given me the best year of my life.” Cecil tips Carlos’s chin up so that their lips meet and lock for another luxurious, careless moment.

But just as soon as it starts, it ends as Cecil pulls away and coughs. The tentacles drop away like withered branches. Carlos winces as he feels his body shake along with the other man’s. 

“Lay down, Cecil.” 

“Anything for you.”

**-:-**

His shaking becomes more aggressive, and his tentacles retreat like snakes. The coughing becomes frequent too, blood coating his hands as he tries to muffle the sound. His pupils soon dilate and whimpering follows. His head is on fire. He’s being skinned and burned and blended and frozen alive.

The whole time he is with Carlos, the two touching foreheads so they can see each other. The whole time, Carlos soothes him and tells him it’s okay, that he’s free to go now. The whole time he can hear Carlos fighting back tears and curse words that would otherwise surface. But that was his Carlos. His strong, beautiful, perfect, guardian angel Carlos. 

Eventually Cecil grows drowsy. His vision begins to swim. 

It’s as if Carlos is looking through his eyes, because their expressions mirror each other. Sad and loving and mourning and reminiscing. Their year together is flashing before their eyes. One year of bliss. One week of torture. Only a few minutes remaining. 

Life has funny limits on the time we can spend with others before they’re taken away again. 

“Are you leaving?” Carlos whispers, because that’s all he can manage with his throat so tight. He’s treating this as a regular goodbye. It’s a cruel trick to play on his own mind, but it’s all he can do.

“I’m afraid so,” Cecil whispers back. He brushes his hands through Carlos’s— _his_ Carlos’s—perfect hair and musters a pained smile.

“I love you.”

“And I love you.”

They kiss once more. 

It’s firm and fierce and passionate, Carlos maintaining his grip and Cecil slowly slipping away until…

His lips loosen. His cheek softly falls back onto the pillow.

“Goodnight, my Carlos. Goodnight.”

**-:-**

_It’s a dream,_ he thinks as jolts awake, face wet and clammy from his tear-soaked pillow.

 _It has to be a dream,_ he assures himself as his eyes focus on the sleeping face of Cecil.

_It’s obviously a dream,_ he concludes as he reaches out to brush the icy skin of his lover. 

_Let it be a dream,_ he pleads when the beautiful voice he craves does not escape through the sealed lips to comfort him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive criticism is always appreciated. Thanks to all who read this story, even if you just skimmed through or took a quick glance at the first sentence. You're lovely either way.


	3. After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Current mood: what have I done?
> 
> Before you read, please accept this internet box of tissues. It's the least I can offer.

He doesn’t truly wake up—not mentally at least—until the next morning. When he does, it’s like he’s fallen face first onto concrete.

Cecil’s still there. But Cecil’s gone.

Cecil.

Fuck.

Carlos is afraid to touch him. He’s become so foreign since their last meeting. He's curled in a slight fetal position, which makes him look so small in comparison to his usual tall and slim stature. He is pale and fragile and tragic. This couldn’t be Cecil. Cecil had life, had presence. There is no way this curled up stranger could be that man. There is no way this curled up stranger could have possibly possessed such a powerful voice.

But he does.

Did. 

Carlos grimaces at his requirement to use the past tense when referring to Cecil. It seems incorrect. Any second, Cecil will open his eyes and gaze up at Carlos. Any second, Cecil will raise the hand that is resting just under his mouth, the one that traced his lips after they'd received their final kiss. Any second, any minute, as long as Cecil wakes up.

But he doesn’t.

Carlos is unsure of what to do. He's never been taught on the proper way to dispose of a body.

Wait, no, he has.

He finds the phone book and looks up the number of the people Cecil once told him to call via PSA during one of his shows. Carlos remembers that show clearly, because it was the same day that Cecil had first moved in with him. Carlos had laughed as the other man gushed about the house's every detail, mostly because he'd been using his higher pitched voice that made him sound vaguely like a teenage girl. The scientist was secretly flattered by the fact that Cecil used that voice only when talking about him.

Carlos gets out his cell phone to dial the number, and tries hard not to wince when his lock screen appears bearing a candid photo of Cecil sleeping on the couch, eyebrows furrowed and hair ruffled. Carlos remembered taking the picture clearly. His shutter sound had gone off and Cecil had nearly fallen off the couch out of surprise. The two had laughed for what felt like hours, but was most likely five minutes. Cecil had made the picture as the lock screen himself, telling Carlos, “It’ll help you remember how adorable I am whenever you’re feeling down.”  
Carlos still feels the ghost of Cecil’s hand brushing against his jawline after he’d said that. 

The dial tone rings once, twice, then a voice asks Carlos to state his business. “Hi, I’d like to request the Sheriff’s Secret Police. Carlos. Yes, the one Cecil talks about on the radio.” Saying his name out loud hurts. “I’m calling to request a body removal. I was informed you have a squad set up for this purpose? It's um..." his voice cracks and he mutters, "Sorry, excuse me. It's Cecil."

The words shock the operator just as much as Carlos. He stares blankly at a wall while the other line stays silent for what seems like an eternity. Carlos is asked whether or not he is positive the man who has passed is Cecil Baldwin, voice of the Night Vale Community Radio. Carlos shakily replies that yes, he’s absolutely sure.

He is told that the Body Removal sector of the Sheriff’s Secret Police will be there in fifteen minutes. He should evacuate the room he is currently in so they can do their job. Secretly.

Carlos hangs up the phone, exits the room, and after closing the door behind him, slumps against it and curls up so his head touches his knees.

He remembers a few months back when Cecil heard a miss-report that Carlos had died in a small battle waged by the citizens of the little town below lane 5. He had listened to a recording of the broadcast in secret, where he couldn’t believe his ears. Cecil’s voice had broken that day in a way Carlos had never heard or imagined. The scientist was legitimately surprised at how upset Cecil was over his supposed death. Carlos never considered himself special, and to hear someone mourn him in such a way was almost confusing.

Then Cecil learned that Carlos was still alive, and his voice had lifted. Carlos never realized how much Cecil adored him until that point, and it made him both happy and guilty. He was someone’s favorite person in the world, and he was so glad that the person was Cecil. But because of that, he felt the need to be more than what he actually was. What had made Cecil see Carlos as unique and wonderful in the first place? What if something were to happen that made Cecil realize how painfully ordinary Carlos truly was. He’d wondered: would Cecil still love him?

Carlos never told Cecil that he had listened to the episode, but from then on he had tried to do whatever he could to make sure that Cecil's illusion of Carlos was preserved. He wanted to make him happy, to keep him safe.

Had Cecil, in his last few days, hours, minutes, seconds, become disappointed that Carlos hadn’t saved him? Had Cecil finally discovered that Carlos was truly only human?  
Carlos can’t bear to think of it.

He goes downstairs. Being near the room that contained Cecil was becoming too much.

When he gets to the bottom of the steps, he pulls back the curtains and gazes out onto the front lawn. Nothing seems different. It’s the same as yesterday.

Cecil must be the change.

Carlos’s head spins a little, and he realizes he hasn’t eaten in two days. He wonders if he should make something, but even the slightest notion of food makes him want to vomit. Still, the kitchen seems safer than the room upstairs. Carlos peeks in to see how the atmosphere is. The room feels clammy and the pale purple walls make Carlos’s head hurt. Nevertheless, he ventures in, running a hand along the cabinets and trying his best not to look in the direction of the desolate table. Carlos opens the cabinet just above the stove. The squirrel salt and pepper shakers are still perched in their normal spots.

Carlos picks up the salt squirrel and remembers how much he’s smiled when Cecil had first brought them home. He’d been so excited, and Carlos had been so surprised by the gift that the two had nearly wet themselves laughing. Carlos never considered himself a man who’d use squirrel salt and pepper shakers, but here he was, about four months later, holding them in his hand and examining where the paint was beginning to thin from constant use. The squirrel and its doppelganger each share large, buck-toothed smiles. They’re happy. _Disgustingly_ happy. Carlos doesn’t know what this feeling is that’s building up inside him, but it’s making him cringe at the sight of these stupid squirrels.

The floor is soon decorated with salt, pepper, and broken ceramic.

He takes a deep breath. The kitchen was obviously a bad place to go.

Ultimately, he decides to go back upstairs and take one last look at Cecil. A final farewell of sorts. Maybe it can help him grasp at this impossible situation. He's more awake now, so he can't fool himself into thinking this is all sill a dream.

But when he opens the door, Cecil is gone. There is a note on the night stand, probably from the Secret Police, but Carlos ignores it as he crosses the room and lies down on the bed. He reaches for the empty space next to him, the space that still holds a faint imprint of his body. Carlos cries for what feels like the thousandth time.

Only this time he doesn’t have his constant, his anchor, to hold him.

**-:-**

He feels insane.

Not just because he’s now alone in Night Vale, a town where mystery and insanity intertwine daily, but because the only person he truly knew there, the only one that made sense is lost.

He doesn't know where Cecil was taken, but he knows for sure I wasn't a cemetery. The Night Vale cemetery was closed down and removed from existence after "The Ghost Pandemonium of 2000". Since that event, bodies in Night Vale aren't buried. They're either taken by the Body Removal sector of the Sheriff's Secret Police or, through authorization and special permission, family and friends of the deceased can dispose of the body via any method they choose. God knows Carlos couldn't have possibly done that.

But neither of these options comes with a funeral, meaning no final goodbye. Meaning Carlos's last glimpse of Cecil had been disoriented with confusion and fear and even slight repulsion. Carlos tries to grip onto the memory of Cecil's last words, but the guilt is too loud to drown out.

Neighbors have been streaming in one by one to offer their condolences, each one’s name sounding vaguely familiar from some story Cecil must’ve told him long ago. Was it long ago, or was it just a few weeks ago? Days feel like eternities, so Carlos has no clue.

The routine of accepting gifts and sympathy from neighbors becomes a constant for a week or so before the buzz dies down. He still gets the occasional fans of Cecil's who come to offer their "Sorry for your loss" speeches, but it seems that the town is just as unfamiliar with Carlos as Carlos is with it, so they don’t know how to approach him.

What would they say, anyway? Cecil was a town icon and Carlos was his chosen companion. According to these people, Carlos was something Cecil had treasured, and seeing as he wasn't a local, he was a mystery. The citizens probably assumed they couldn't have a normal conversation about the deceased broadcaster with him as they might have with other residents, that it would be rude or awkward. So what was left to offer? “Sorry that your boyfriend died”?

 _Boyfriend._ That word seems so childish, like what you would call someone in middle school. Boyfriend was insulting to the relationship he and Cecil had shared.

Yet it is the same word Steve Carlsberg uses when he comes banging on the door one Saturday, about three weeks after...Cecil.

"You that boyfriend Baldwin talks about on the radio all the time?"

Carlos is a little surprised at this unexpected appearance, seeing as Steve and Cecil hadn't exactly been friends. Come to think of it, Cecil tended to bash Steve on air whenever the chance arose. He's also confused by Steve's use of the word "talks". As if Cecil still talked about him on the radio.

As Carlos stands at the front door, staring at the flushed face of the middle-aged man, he has a feeling this confrontation is going to be different than those he'd had with the mourners.

"Yes, I guess you could call me 'that boyfriend'. Can I help you, Mr. Carlsberg?"

"Listen, Night Vale radio has been down for the past few weeks, and I don't know what the hell to expect. Baldwin's a pompous bastard but at least he warned us about upcoming events. Now where is he? I'd like to give him a piece of my mind."

Carlos's eyes grow wide and he is filled with shock and sorrow and just the slightest touch of cynical amusement. Steve Carlsberg, the man Cecil loathed, and who loathed Cecil in return, didn't know.

“Well?”

“Why don’t you come inside, Mr. Carlsberg?”

Steve huffs loudly and shuffles past Carlos. He takes a seat—Carlos notes it as Cecil’s former seat—at the kitchen table and Carlos quickly runs upstairs and to his bedroom. After retrieving what he’s looking for, he goes back down and hands Steve the note. 

“I’d get Cecil for you, but as you can see that might be a bit difficult.”

Steve’s grimace is replaced with wide eyes and a slack jaw. 

Carlos and has memorized the note by heart: _“We have removed the body of the deceased,_ Cecil Baldwin, _from the premises. Please burn this note upon receiving – SSP.”_ It had taken him a while to actually get to reading the note the first time, and one he had he'd hidden it under his mattress instead of burning it as instructed. He’s looks at it thousands of times since then, just to remind himself of the reality he seems to be losing touch with.

Steve does not remove his eyes from the note as he asks, “When did this happen?”

“Three weeks ago.”

“But how…he…he wasn’t like us.”

“Just because he’s inhuman doesn’t mean he’s immortal,” Carlos echoes the answer Cecil gave him during the Final Week when he’d asked a similar question as Steve: could Cecil die? It had been a harsh question, yet Cecil had calmly informed his partner in a way that was easy to take in, but was not any way sugar-coated. 

It still doesn’t make the information any less painful. Steve drags his palms along his face, cupping them over his mouth and breathing out loudly. His voice is muffled as he says, “This…isn’t what I was expecting.”

Carlos gives a small laugh. “Well, I didn’t think anyone was unaware.”

Steve laughs as well. “I didn’t really care about Baldwin other than when he was on the radio, so it’s no surprise I’m probably the last to know.” His voice gets quiet, as though he’s got something in his throat. “I guess I don’t have to worry about him slandering my name anymore, the freak.” He seems let down by this realization. 

After turning down Carlos’s offer of coffee, Steve thanks the scientist for letting him know the news, and leaves. Carlos realizes another constant is gone, one he didn’t even think of: the rivalry between Steve and Cecil. It’s small, really…but Night Vale isn’t the same without it.

**-:-**

Carlos now spends his time listening to recordings of Cecil’s old broadcasts. He laughs whenever he finds one where Cecil uses his “Carlos voice”. He listens to every episode over and over until they’re memorized…all except the one where his voice breaks. Carlos wants to remember every sound of Cecil’s voice except that one.

One night as he listens, he remembers the glow-in-the-dark stars and moon on the ceiling of the studio booth. That was a constant in Night Vale, right? Carlos gets off of couch in the living room and walks over to the window overlooking the front lawn, pulling back the curtain so he can see the night sky.

The moon is gone, and the stars are scattered haphazardly across the sky. Cecil’s eye is no longer watching over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go guys! I promise, we've gotten through the worst of the feels, so hopefully things can get slightly better in the end. 
> 
> Constructive criticism is always appreciated. Thank you so much for the kudos and comments I've received! Also, thank you for anyone who reads/accidentally clicks on/ scrolls through/ casts hexes on this story. You are all wonderful. Well...maybe not the hexes. If you could please control or otherwise cast them elsewhere, that would be great.


	4. Finale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry about the unintentional 2 week hiatus, but school is a thing that sometimes takes up all of my time.
> 
> Nevertheless, we've finally come to the end. I apologize profusely for the many tears and/or feels some of you have claimed to have after reading this story. Consider this chapter as a peace offering as I try to make all I've hurt right again.

Four months. Four, long, painstakingly slow months. And Carlos still finds himself crying out Cecil’s name as he wakes up from a restless sleep, drenched in sweat and breathing heavily. Why can’t he just fucking move on?

Selfish, that’s what he is. Selfish and pathetic, and the amount of times he’s contemplated methods and voodoo and bargains that might allow him to talk, or at least see Cecil once more simply goes to further prove this. _Just once_ , he repeatedly tries to convince himself without success, _once more and I’ll let go._ One night he’d even contemplated creating a bloodstone circle. He didn’t know how to use one (Cecil had died before he could show Carlos how to properly do so), but hell knew he was desperate enough to try. Of course, he’d quickly realized how these unnatural methods could either put Cecil at a risk of becoming a trapped spirit, or simply end in a catastrophic failure, but anything to make sure Carlos was happy, right? Right!

God. He’s nothing but scum. He keeps reminding himself that Cecil is happier and without pain now, and just because he’s achieved that by being taken from Carlos does not mean it is a bad thing. Still, there are nights that Carlos can’t help but feel the cold tendrils of anger creep into him. Cecil was _supposed_ to be here, he was _supposed_ to be the one to keep Carlos sane, and now he was gone and Carlos was contemplating tangling with magic. Last time he checked, sane people usually didn’t feel as though they had to resort to that.

These past few weeks have been especially hard. Nothing in Night Vale seems familiar anymore. Carlos has left the house only for needed things such as toiletries, food, and nothing more. The people seem stranger, the sky seems more threatening, and Carlos has almost had an anxiety attack more than once at even the slightest paranormal occurrence. Without Cecil, there’s no warning of what to expect. Carlos is beginning to feel trapped. He’s been abandoned and now he’s stranded in a town where people rarely, if ever, leave. It's what he gets for trusting someone who wasn't like him. Someone who was so different he wasn't even human. But like most people, Carlos falls for beautiful things... a weakness that is obviously harmful.

Every night, Carlos waits for some sort of small sign, a sign that Cecil is still with him somehow. Every night, Carlos is disappointed. It's taken this long for him to realize it will never come. Cecil, wherever he is now, has forgotten him. 

And yet, no matter how many times Carlos convinces himself Cecil’s spirit is gone, a small part of him can’t accept it. He feels some sort of nagging tug at the back of his mind, as if to signal him not to lose hope. His thoughts soon become tangled and twisted, and he feels the immense need to clear them. But he can't do so in the house. Maybe...maybe he needs to take a walk outside. It might be good for him. He forces himself off of the couch and throws on the first sweatshirt he can find: one with the periodic table of elements written in cryptic symbols (a gift Cecil had bought for him at a store in Night Vale). With a deep breath, he opens the front door, steps out, and faces both the night and outdoors he’s been so distant from.

The outside air is dry and refreshing against Carlos’s skin. He’s been inside for so long he has almost forgotten how nice fresh air is. Feeling revitalized, he walks in long strides, his breath becoming fog as he breathes out, and flowing behind him in a smoky path. His pace is steady as he walks to no place in particular.

This of course leads him to a place of importance. Specifically: the Arby’s.

Carlos takes in a deep breath when he sees it. This had been a spot he and Cecil had frequented often on nights when they needed to talk, or when they wanted to look up at the stars and contemplate their tiny existence in comparison to such a vast galaxy. 

He remembers driving his car up here months ago for the first time so that he could meet with Cecil. It had been just after his near-death experience, one that would have been a complete-death experience if the Apache Tracker hadn't sacrificed himself. And after everything that had happened…all he could think about was seeing Cecil. He still wasn't sure why exactly, but maybe because he decided he needed to take a chance with his life now. One minute it could be there, the next it could be taken away by small villagers who lived under a bowling alley. Besides, if he was going to stay in Night Vale, he might as well try and make a connection with someone who'd shown interest in him, and who he'd realized he might have an interest in as well. Cecil had arrived, and he and Carlos had stared for hours at the lights hovering above the building, not speaking, only taking in each other’s presence. 

Carlos looks up and, sure enough, there are those lights. Only…they’re not as bright as they once were. He smiles sadly. They had been almost blinding when Cecil first placed his head on Carlos’s shoulder.

Carlos places a hand on the spot Cecil's head had been. That was enough dwelling on that memory. Carlos runs the hand through his hair and begins to move again; soon walking past Gino’s where they’d had their first "official" date. That place had given him the creeps, but Cecil claimed it was the fanciest restaurant in town and had been so delighted when he heard they were going there for dinner. It hadn't been too awful, either, although Carlos could have gone for something other than a rare and bloody mushroom for dinner. Night Vale cuisine was always...unpredictable. 

He walks for what seems like hours, memories flooding back to him with every recognizable destination, until he arrives at the place he realizes he’s been subconsciously thinking of for four months. 

The studio looks unchanged. He wonders if the inside is the same, too. He hasn’t bothered to check the radio to see if anyone has taken over Cecil’s show yet. They wouldn’t be as good as him anyways.

Carlos walks over to the building and leans against the bricks, catching his breath. He hadn't felt it before while his mind had been occupied, but now he feels all the months of inactivity catching up to him. He closes his eyes and pressed his ear against the wall, imagining Cecil’s voice filling that studio for all of Night Vale. He smiles. He can almost hear it: that beautiful voice.

He remains that way for a few more minutes before he hears a rustle in the bushes. He doesn't think anything of it the first time, but it soon grows louder.  
Carlos glances around frantically, but sees no one. Had Station Management sensed his presence? He's well aware of how terrifying they can be. He braces himself for the worst and screws his eyes shut. He doesn't know how this will help, but it's the best solution he can think of. Maybe if he isn't able to see them, they'll be unable to see him. Nonsensical logic like that sometimes worked in Night Vale. He stands in darkness, eyes and jaw clenched, praying for nothing to attack him when something soft glides past his legs. His balance gives out from shock. There, sitting with eyes gleaming in the moonlight sits...

A black kitten.

Carlos lets out a small, “Ah!” Before he realizes what exactly he's looking at. Then he chuckles. Then he laughs. Pretty soon he’s guffawing, curled up and clutching his side. He had been scared by a kitten!

Regaining his composure, Carlos crawls towards the animal, who sits, head cocked at him as he approaches. In a way, this pensive expression sort of reminded him of Cecil. He used to cock his head and stare at Carlos as he talked about some experiment at work. Cecil probably hasn't picked up on anything Carlos had said, but he had a funny way of pretending he did.

Carlos smiles and extends a hand, which the kitten sniffs and then nuzzles affectionately. His purr is deep and soothing. It reminds Carlos of Cecil again, this time of his voice. God, he really is desperate for Cecil to contact him in some way if he's now thinking a cat possesses Cecil's traits. 

_“I actually prefer cats.”_

Carlos suddenly remembers the conversation Cecil and he had shared the morning they found the Dogwood tree had transformed. But…this cat is a cat. It’s silly for Carlos to even consider...whatever he'd been thinking. 

Still, the poor thing is probably homeless, seeing as it has no collar or tags. The least Carlos can do is bring it to his house for the night.

“Here, kitten,” he coaxes gently. The cat immediately goes to him, allowing himself to be picked up. The cat continues to purr, and places his head on Carlos’s shoulder. “You remind me of a friend I had once,” Carlos tells the cat. At this remark, the animal looks up at him and lets out a meow. Carlos laughs. He wouldn't be surprised of the little creature could understand him. He’s encountered stranger things. "Alright buddy, you can stay with me. That sound good?" 

The cat wriggles. Out of Carlos's hands and onto his shoulder. He seems to be getting comfortable, when he catches a glimpse of a stray lock of Carlos's hair. It's grown longer in the past four months. "Looks like it's time for a trim soon, huh?" As if in protest, the creature lets out low meow as he places a paw on the Scientist's head, purring as it runs it through the strands.

Carlos raises an eyebrow and lets out a small laugh. This cat is seriously familiar. But it's probably the months without much contact with anyone, human or animal, that makes him think so. He lets out a small sigh and takes one last look at the studio. Somehow, it seems illuminated.

Curious, Carlos glances up at the sky and almost can’t believe his eyes: the stars are shaped like an eye, and the moon has reappeared in the center to form the iris.  
He stands awestruck. The rumbling purrs are what snap him out of his daze. He glances down at the kitten on his shoulder. It’s looking up at him with stormy grey eyes. He swears the animal looks as though it remembers him, as though it _knows_ him. 

Maybe things and people didn't die or disappear or vanish forever here. Maybe they just changed a little. Maybe, although they didn't look the same, they were still the person or creature or whatever they'd always been. After all, this is Night Vale. 

Or maybe he really _is_ taking home a random stray, who the hell knew. But he has a hunch they've met before, and that this cat once had a voice that made a certain scientist fall in love and feel secure in a town where security was not guaranteed whatsoever. Carlos feels something heavy in his chest. It isn't sadness though. For once in a long time, it's something else he can't decipher just yet. But it's good, it's definitely good. He stares at the kitten who is perched and purring on his shoulder, and smiles.

“Well then. Let’s get you back home, Cecil.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopeful ending? I did try. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's reviewed, given kudos, or even has just glanced through. This was my first Night Vale fic, and the reaction I've gotten has made me eager to post others. You're all absolutely beautiful and I appreciate you even more than Nutella. 
> 
> Until another time, dear readers.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my lovely friend Kelly for betaing, and thank _you_ for reading this chapter. I'm metaphorically hugging you all right now.


End file.
